Dark Rivers of the Heart
by Aspen Snow
Summary: He didn’t want her, he didn’t need her, he didn’t love her. He hated her. But he couldn’t forget, and that would stay with him...forever.
1. Default Chapter

**Dark Rivers of the Heart  
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* * *

_Embellish your darkest dreams, and you'll live like you never lived before  
_

* * *

Life. She couldn't remember when it was ever fair, couldn't remember when it was ever right, she couldn't remember when it was ever good.

She could remember pain and she could remember betrayal. She was lost and hurting, a far cry from the naïve school girl she had once been.

Heartache. That had been inevitable, expected. She knew it was coming. Had always known. But it still hurt, made her feel raw, broken. She wanted to forget, she desperately _needed_ to forget.

But she couldn't, she was scarred with the memories, burdened with them. Love, happiness, laughter, these were memories she couldn't remember, memories she would never find.

Hope. What was hope? A whimsical dream, a childish fantasy. It had no place in reality, no place in a world steeped in hatred and violence. Hope was useless.

So she had let it go. It had been remarkably easy to leave it behind. Too easy.

That should have been sad, should have been tragic that a girl as young she was had already lost hope, had already abandoned all claims to innocence. But it wasn't sad, it wasn't tragic, it was simply the truth.

And the truth hurt. Someone should have told her that life would be like this, someone should have warned her that life wasn't easy.

It was impossible.

She had learned the hard way. Isn't that how everyone learned? Painfully. She had made two mistakes, and they had cost her so much. But she had learned.

She had watched all her fantasies decay, watched all her idealistic dreams fade as she made the same mistake again, and again.

She had learned that there are some things in life that hurt so much they make you cry.

Love was not what she had dreamt it would be. It was worse.

So much worse.

* * *

Beautiful. No, she wasn't beautiful. Beauty was superficial, unimportant, trivial. He didn't care for it, he didn't trust it. He had seen many beautiful women and beneath their perfectly crafted appearances he found emptiness. Their beauty masking the nothingness inside.

Strange. That was the word he had decided on, the description he was most comfortable with, the one he could understand. She was strange. Not unique, not intriguing, these implied that she had an effect on him, implied that there was something about her that appealed to him, which there wasn't.

Strange was almost an insult and this suited his view of the human girl. He liked to think that her specific blend of human stupidity had caught his eye, nothing more.

He didn't respect her, didn't admire her in any way. She was outspoken, a dangerous quality for a human girl to possess, especially one who relied on the protection of friends rather than her own strength. One day her rash words would get her into trouble, and there would be no one to protect her. Where would her fiery temper be on that day? Nowhere.

Because she would be dead.

She had stood before him in battle, she had believed that she could defeat him. Foolish. A smart warrior knew their own strength and capabilities as well as those of their enemy. A smart warrior knew when to fight, and knew when to surrender. Yet she stood against him anyways, stood before him ready to fight despite her weaknesses, despite her mortality.

Some might call her brave, he called her stupid. She would die young. She would lose her life in a battle she never had a chance of winning.

Her death wouldn't be tragic, it would be meaningless.

It would be nothing, because she was human, because she was foolish, because she believed there was something in this world worth fighting for.

When there wasn't.

* * *

"You came for the sword." He didn't respond to her spoken observation, didn't even reveal himself. But she knew he was there waiting.

Watching.

Death had brought him to her, was probably the only thing capable of bringing him here. Death had given her power, one she wasn't used to wielding, and one he badly wanted.

Unfortunately for him she wasn't in a very giving mood. As much as she hated the sword, hated what her possession of it represented, she wasn't willing to give it up.

Not yet.

Maybe he sensed her reluctance to part with the sword, perhaps that was why he simply followed her instead of forcefully demanding the object of his desire.

He couldn't have the sword without her, couldn't touch it without her. And that was the only reason he kept her alive. She knew this, she knew that without the protection the sword offered she would be dead because she was an annoyance, an obstacle, a human.

The sword belonged to him, belonged in his family, not in the hands of a human girl from another time, another world. She understood this, but she held onto the sword anyways.

Held onto it because he had always been powerful, and she had never been.

So he would have to continue following her because the sword would be hers until she decided to give it to him. And on that day when he finally claimed what was rightfully his he would most certainly kill her.

Or maybe he wouldn't.

Whatever the case, she continued on in this world she didn't belong in, content with the knowledge that for the first time in her life she wasn't helpless.

And that she wouldn't let him take from her. She needed it more than him.

* * *

He wanted to kill her. Could very easily kill her at any moment. But that would bring nothing but momentary satisfaction and permanent frustration. If he killed her now the sword would remain untouchable, useless.

She had to give it to him, she had to relinquish her control over it, she had to do this or he would never be able to touch it.

He was a warrior, royalty, his control was impeccable, unflappable. But he felt the rage nonetheless, felt the white hot surge of fury that coursed through him, felt it with such intensity that it was tangible.

His anger was palpable, it was in the air, and he had a hard time controlling it, he found himself struggling to bank down the sudden and sharp desire to kill this tiny slip of a human girl.

He had held these lands, his family's territory together with the strength of his bare hands, conquered and claimed with cunning and force, etched himself into history with his omnipotence, his power, his ruthlessness.

Yet here he was, subject to the whims of a single human girl. And there was nothing he could do to change that.

Nothing. And that made him angry, made him restless. Him following her made no sense, it was irrational, him stalking her would change nothing, accomplish nothing.

But his rage blinded him, made him act without reason, made him careless. And that was dangerous.

Dangerous for her, dangerous for him.

* * *

"You could have at least helped" Kagome said tiredly to the demon she knew was watching her.

The youkai had come out of nowhere, sensing the easy prey that she was, anticipating her death and how she would taste. She should have been an easy conquest, a guaranteed kill, she almost was.

Even with the aid of the sword her movements were weak, slow, and ineffective. All the while she had battled the lowly youkai she had sensed him there, hiding just out of sight, watching her pathetic attempt at defending herself.

Perhaps he found amusement in her struggle and that was why he did not intervene, or perhaps he really hoped something else would just kill her. But he had a vested interest in her staying alive.

The sword. Maybe he had given up on her ever giving it to him, it had been months since that first day she had acquired both the sword and him as her stalker. Months in which he had done nothing but follow her quietly in the shadows, waiting. Perhaps his patience had run out, however this seemed unlikely to her seeing as the cool demon lord seemed to possess an endless supply of patience and restraint.

He hadn't killed her yet.

But now here she was, laying exhaustedly on the grass near the bloody remains of the hideous youkai that had tried to eat her, talking to a demon who would very probably rather have killed himself than do anything to help her.

And then the silence was broken by a faint rustling, she opened her eyes, and wasn't entirely surprised to see the demon lord standing before her in all his perfect glory.

And then all she could see were those eyes, those magnetic golden eyes that flashed briefly in anger, or maybe it was disgust.

"You are not worthy of the sword" he said scornfully, practically spitting the words at her.

"No, I'm not"

"You admit it" and his eyes flashed once more, but not in anger, in surprise.

"Yes" Of course she admitted it. Contrary to what he believed, she really wasn't stupid. The sword was nearly useless in her hands, her untrained and feeble attempts mocked the potent power which it held.

"Then leave it" was his firmly spoken command.

She smiled, arrogance was certainly a family trait.

"You don't deserve it either, Sesshoumaru." And he didn't. The sword was meant to protect, and he would surely use it to destroy.

He didn't say anything in response to her boldly spoken insult, he simply walked away, leaving her once again in silence.

She sighed wearily, silently wondering how long this game they were playing would last before someone finally gave in.

* * *

Life never surprised him. Never. In his world a surprise got you killed. Anticipation had kept him alive all this time, had kept him in power, had made him invincible.

He anticipated his enemies, the moves they would make, their greed for power, their weaknesses, and their inevitable downfall. And he never made mistakes.

Until her. He had _never_ anticipated her. And that irritated him, but he had moved past that, had to, because he was perfect, and he refused to believe anything to the contrary.

He had been prepared to follow her until her death transferred her control of the sword over to him. Had been fully prepared to hate her for forcing him to embark on such a demeaning journey.

But then one day she set the sword down, sheathed in its scabbard she laid it in the grass at her feet and walked away.

Walked away and never looked back.

And _that_ he hadn't expected, hadn't been prepared for her. He approached the sword warily, cautiously, perhaps she was just toying with him. But he immediately discarded that notion, she feared him too much to toy with him, she wasn't skilled enough to set a trap. And no amount of power she possessed would ever be capable of destroying him.

So he picked up the sword, not surprised when the familiar jolt did not shock him. In that moment, had it been within his nature to do so, he might have smiled.

Might have.

But he didn't. He had misjudged her, never in his life had he so wrongly characterized an enemy as he had her. To leave the sword as effortlessly as she did, to walk away from such power spoke of honor, spoke of selflessness.

Selflessness, he scoffed at such an ideal. She walked away from the only thing capable of keeping her alive, walked away from the only protection she had from demons such as himself. Forsaking her safety for others, forsaking her safety for _any_ reason would only get her killed.

His hand tightened on the sword he sought for so long, confirming his final possession of it. He should have turned away, should have left that grass clearing and gone back to the life he had led before her, the life he knew.

But he didn't. He instead walked across that clearing in the same way she had, following her once more as he had done for so long.

She believed that she had done the right thing by leaving him the sword which rightfully belonged him.

And so he followed intent on showing her that she had not done the right thing, because only the strong survived.

And she had made him stronger.

He continued on in the shadows, silently stalking her, toying with her as a predator does with is prey. Everyday he planned her demise, anticipated the sound of her screams, the satisfaction of her death.

And everyday he let her live. Let her live not because he couldn't kill, he could, he would have no qualms about ending her life, would in fact take immense pleasure in seeing the instrument of his endless frustration wiped away from this world.

He let her live because he watched her give her only food to a child she did not know, watched her hold the hand of a dying man she had never met, watched her smile in pure joy when it rained.

He let her live because he had been wrong, as he had so often been when it came to this one human woman, he had been wrong.

Her death wouldn't be meaningless. It would be remembered.

And it would be tragic.

* * *

She had given him the sword because it didn't belong to her, because she didn't belong in this world. She had given it to him because she didn't want it.

It had protected her, had made her stronger. But she didn't want it if it made her like him. She enjoyed its power, desired it, craved it. Just like he did.

And so she had let it go because she _wasn't_ like him, never would be, never wanted to be.

She had expected death, when that didn't come she expected to never see him again, or more accurately, sense him again lurking there in the shadows just beyond her sight.

But still he followed, still he watched, and still he did nothing. She should have been terrified, should have been scared that he refused to leave her alone. But she found herself oddly at peace.

If he was going to kill her, there would be nothing she could do to stop it, nothing at all. So she continued to live her life as if he weren't there, continued on in strange sort of happiness, only curious as to why he would follow her and do nothing.

She was nothing to him, nothing. Yet day after day he was there, devoting his time and his patience to her, it was almost as if he _needed_ to see her, almost as if he cared for her in his own twisted way.

But that was impossible with a demon like him.

And as if his watching her lent him the ability to read her mind, he appeared just as her thoughts had started to drift down this new strange road.

He appeared as quietly as he had before, and this time she expected her death, was certain of it. So when he continued simply standing there, doing nothing, she met those intense golden eyes, and wondered why.

Why he did not kill her, why he followed. Why? The question hung in the air, posed quietly by her innate curiosity. It was there, in her eyes, a challenge, daring him to answer.

"I don't love you" she heard him say somewhat disdainfully, as if the words were beneath him. Which they were.

She was struck by the answer, strangely affected by hearing such words come from him. Love her? No. Of course he didn't. She had known that, always. Love was weak, it wasn't enough. Wasn't enough for him, wasn't enough for her. She didn't want love, not from him. He was cold, he was powerful, he was perfect. And she liked him that way.

"I'm human" she said, though it was unnecessary to make the distinction. If anyone was aware of her humanity it was him. He saw all her flaws, her weaknesses, her failings. In his eyes she was dead already, had been dying since the day she was born. She was beneath him. This she understood, this she accepted. To him she was simply nothing.

And that was freeing. He had no expectations of her, she could never let him down, never disappoint him, because she already was a disappointment in his eyes. She didn't have to smile for him, didn't have to laugh and pretend everything was fine, pretend she was happy when she wasn't.

When she had never been. She didn't have to pretend, because he didn't care, and never would.

"You're weak." Yes she was most definitely weak. A prisoner to her emotions, captive to the heart wrenching drama she unnecessarily created. She couldn't defend herself, she couldn't survive in this world on her own.

"I'll die." And she would, it wasn't a pessimistic observation, it wasn't fatalistic, it was the truth, reality.

"Yes"

"Then why are you here?" She questioned softly, almost as if she were afraid to question the demon's motives.

And she wondered, suddenly, as she stared into those hard, golden eyes, if he had ever been kind, if had always been so cruel.

Kind. What would kindness do to a man like him? What would he look like with a smile? And she looked at him, quietly waiting for an answer she wasn't sure he would give, and tried to picture him as someone other than who he was.

She speculated in the growing silence that beneath the cool indifference and precise ruthlessness was a man.

A man who dreamed, just like everyone else.

It was quiet, too quiet. They were alone, completely and utterly alone. The silence was deafening, thunderous as she anxiously awaiting the words he was so reluctant to speak.

"Why" she asked again. Not sure why she bothered when she knew he would continue on in silence, continue ignoring her menial presence. After all she was merely a human, he would not lower himself to answer her question.

But she had forgotten that life had this uncanny ability to surprise you, to make something happen that you don't expect, that you are completely unprepared for.

Because he _did_ answer her question.

"I can't forget" he said almost offhandedly, almost as if those three words meant nothing, as if his admission didn't change anything.

But it did, and those three words meant everything. Love was empty, meaningless. She had been in love before. But love died, burned out, faded away with the blood, the betrayal, and the hate.

Had he said he loved her she would have walked away, unaffected and disappointed. He was not capable of love, did not know what it meant, didn't want to know. Those words, coming from him would mean nothing, they would just be three more words.

And they didn't suit him. He was a cold demon, merciless, a perfectly crafted machine of destruction. Love had no place in a man like him, a man who sought only power, and left a trail of death in his wake. Love was for the weak.

_I can't forget._ Those three words coming from one who had seen so much, accomplished so much, _become_ so much, were more poignant in their impact than anything else could possibly have been.

And that made her smile, because in this world of change and uncertainty, in this time when every step she took brought her closer to a future that was unknown and terrifying, one thing would always be true.

She would be remembered. Remembered by a demon who hated her, remembered by a man disgusted by her weaknesses, her very nature. Remembered in spite of all this simply because he could not forget her.

And there was nothing more beautiful than that.

* * *

_I will still be here, if only you will remember me  
_

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	2. Sweet Darkness

**Sweet Darkness**

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_I can't remember if I'm nearer to heaven, or one step closer to hell_

* * *

_I can't forget._

He had cursed himself with those words, damned himself to a lifetime of a remembering. And forever was a long time to remember something he had only ever wanted to forget.

But he couldn't, and he had tried, tried desperately, wildly to forget the tiny slip of a girl who should have meant nothing, who _did_ mean nothing. He had watched her leave that day, so long ago. He had watched her jump into that damned well. He'd watched her because he had to make sure, had to _know_ that she was gone.

When he finally moved to be sure she was gone, when he finally looked over the edge and into that well, half afraid that she would still be there, he had found nothing. Nothing but the faint stirrings of old magic and her scent, rapidly fading, diluted by a distance so great not even her memory could overcome.

At least that's what should have happened. But he could still hear her voice in his head, so clear, so curious.

_Why?_

And he hated that he still didn't understand her, that at the one instant she sat precariously on the lip of the well, half gone from his life already, he had wanted to stop her, if only for a moment, and ask her the same question.

_Why?_

Unresolved. Her departure had solved nothing, had in fact only heightened his intrigue, and had only served to make the problem worse, her person more frustrating. He was left wondering.

And that was why, five hundred years later he hadn't been surprised to see her standing there, on the steps of an ancestral shrine he might have recognized had he known her name.

It seemed only natural that after centuries of hearing her voice, of wondering why, why she had smiled so softly that day, why she had whispered those sorrowful words of apology, she would suddenly materialize in front of him, solid and real.

Five hundred years later he was just as disgusted, just as darkly fascinated by her being as he had been so long ago.

The sharp click of heels on pavement snapped him out of past induced reverie and brought his attention back to the present.

In the shadows his hand dropped to his side and reflexively grabbed for the hilt of his sword. When his fingers met nothing but air, he curled them tightly into a fist and held them like that, clenched in anger, and frustration.

In the soft moonlight he could vaguely make out the shadowy figure of a person walking, hurriedly down the sidewalk. And then it stopped beneath a streetlamp and even in that harsh yellow light he could see her eyes, he could see that strangely defiant blue that even the unforgiving passage of time couldn't dim. She shouldn't have been out here at this time of night. Sometimes, _sometimes_, he was shocked by the strength of her naiveté. She of all people should have known the evil that lurked in the darkness, she should have known there would be danger stalking her in the darkness in every world, in every time. He wondered if there were other creatures who noticed the thinly veiled fear that sparkled when she stepped into the light.

When she began walking once again, when her figure could no longer be distinguished from the shadows and the night, he walked away and left her to the dangerous things in the dark, because the alternative was to kill her, to cross that black stretch of space that separated them and snap her neck in one quick, efficient twist of his wrist. And he couldn't do that. Because he knew her death wouldn't make him forget. He was almost sure that she would smile in that one instant before he ended her life. He was sure of it, because she never did what she supposed to do.

It was enough that he was haunted by her eyes, that he still saw her laying a sword down softly in the grass, it was enough that he still saw her walking away. That was enough, he didn't need the picture of her smile to haunt him for the rest of eternity, however long that may be.

And even as he walked away, even as each step he took echoed his anger, his hatred, he knew that tomorrow he would be here, again, following her, like he always did.

Because he still couldn't forget, because he still wanted to know _why._

_

* * *

_

"_I gave you the sword, what more do you want?" she asked in exasperation. It was a question born of frustration and confusion. Why. That's all she wanted to know. Why was he still here after all this time? Why?_

"_To be rid of you" he replied and she knew he meant it._

"_Then kill me. Kill me and be rid of me. It will make you forget." She was sure it was what he wanted, she was sure that cold desire in his eyes yearned for her death with a passion that burned. And how he must have hated that._

"_It won't" and it probably wouldn't. He wanted to kill her more than he had ever wanted to kill anything before. And that desire, that reckless, animalistic need would never be forgotten by this cold, calculating man._

"_There is nothing more certain than death." She said because she believed it. If he killed her she would be gone, her body, her soul, her everything. Gone. Nothing left to invoke memories._

"_Remember that, miko, when you cry out that half breed's name in the middle of the night." Still nothing in that voice but cold, calm certainty. But her mind and her heart automatically protested his statement. Because that had been different._

"_I loved him" she said. This man here was not capable of love, couldn't understand how love made a person remember. Everything._

"_He is dead" he said, reminding her of earlier statement, that there is nothing more certain than death._

"_I…I can't forget him" she replied without hesitation, inadvertently proving his point and unknowingly echoing the very sentiment he would later speak aloud. But not yet, it seemed the demon lord wasn't quite ready to utter the words._

"_And so he lives still" he stated with a calm finality before he turned away._

_Point made._

* * *

She caught the glint of his silver hair when she turned the corner and she smiled, comforted by the familiar sight. Really though it shouldn't have made her smile, it shouldn't have made her feel comfortable, safe, _right._ Even after all this time he still hated her, still desperately yearned for her death, her blood. Eventually he would get it, but she was convinced that her death would not be dealt by his hand. 

No. It wouldn't come from him. He could have killed her at any time. She sensed that perhaps this time around, five hundred years into the future, five hundred years away from all that had once bound them together there was something beyond morbid curiosity that drew him to her.

She was a relic from the past, _his_ past, a residual from a time when he had been in power, when he had been a God. Now she figured that in this time, this time where raw strength had been replaced by science, where honor and loyalty had long ago been swayed by the lures of money and temptation, she sensed that he sought her ought as reminder.

A reminder of who he had once been, and could never be again.

And so now she was left to wonder not why but _when_. When would he finally understand that there was more to her than just her weaknesses? More to her than her humanity, her mortality.

When would he see that there was a sadness, an ache.

For him.

* * *

_He'd followed her to the well. Not because he had wanted to, but simply because that was where she had gone. She hadn't told him she was leaving. She hadn't told him she was leaving this place, this time. But she sensed that he knew._

_She wondered if it made him happy, the thought of her leaving, forever. She smiled. He deserved to be happy, even if happiness was a trait that could never, would never suit this man._

_She couldn't be sure what he was thinking as he stood there, quietly and so powerfully stoic in that way he always did. She couldn't know for certain what thoughts those cold, hard eyes held captive. But she thought that maybe, just maybe he was thinking what this world would be like with her gone._

_And she was sorry for that, because she was sure that the last thing he wanted to be thinking about was her._

"_I'm sorry…for making you remember" were her last words before she jumped over the edge of that wooden well and disappeared forever, from his world at least._

* * *

"Why are you here?" She asked, her voice stumbling over the words, her hand fisted against her heart, as if to still its rapid beat. In all the time he had been following her she had never been afraid of him, never feared the damage this cold man could do to her. But then again he had always confined himself to the shadows, to the darkness, to that never ending blackness he could lose himself in. 

Right now the sun was shining brightly, streaming in through the door she held open, surrounding him, giving him an other worldly glow. The sun was soft on her face, warm, yet she had never felt so cold in her life, she had never trembled so fiercely. He had come to her home, in the middle of the day, knocked on her door. And she was terrified. Maybe he finally had had too much, maybe she had been wrong. Maybe she hadn't reminded him of the past. Or maybe she _did_ remind him of the man he used to be, the man before _her._ Maybe he had finally come to fulfill the promise his golden eyes had raged at her so long ago.

The promise of her death. So she closed her eyes, waiting for the blow, the feel of icy fingers around her neck, or would they be hot? Burning with rage? She anticipated pain, blood. Which was why the sound of his voice, tight and rough startled her, shocked her into opening her eyes and facing him.

"Why?" This question again? Her mind worked rapidly to recall the snippets of conversation she could remember from a lifetime ago. Hadn't she already answered this question? It had been his. Not hers. Never hers.

"I told you once why I gave it─"

"_No_" he said harshly, anticipating the response she had been about to give. He stepped away from the door then. She could see his shoulders tense through the thin cotton of his shirt as he attempted to restrain…something.

She followed him onto the sun bathed porch, shutting the door softly behind her. No longer afraid of what he might do to her, but afraid of what he might _ask_ her.

"Why did you apologize that day?" he asked finally, his shoulders slumped in defeat, as if he had finally given in to something, finally given voice to something that had been eating him up, burning him with curiosity, and always leaving him unsatisfied.

She suddenly wanted to cry for him, weep for this man who couldn't understand compassion and sincerity, she wanted to mourn this man who couldn't see that there were some people who _wanted_ others to be happy, to be free.

"You hated me" she said and he turned suddenly and she noticed there was a dim desperateness in his eyes, as if he wanted there to be something else.

And she was strangely touched that he really wanted to know, really, truly wanted to understand.

"I wanted you to _not_ remember me because…because you hated me, hated everything I was" and she had loved everything about him, and it had hurt her knowing that her memory would always be unwelcome, hated, despised in his mind.

He continued to stand there, waiting, still not satisfied, still waiting for the answer he had waited centuries to get.

"And I wanted you to be _happy_. I wanted you to be free from what you hated because you deserved it" and how sad she had been when, on that first night he appeared in her modern world she had seen, she had _known_ that he had never found what she had so desperately wished he would.

"Deserved what?" he asked, taking a step closer to her, his eyes intently focused on her lips as if the next words were so important that he had to _watch_ them.

"Peace" she said breathlessly, slightly disconcerted by his sudden closeness and intensity. And he deserved peace, this man above all else deserved it if only because he had never known what it was like to walk carelessly through a day.

He took another step closer and she could feel his breath. She didn't flinch when his hand came up slowly to rest on her cheek. She closed her eyes and savored the burning warmth of him and wondered, idly, why she had ever thought him cold. His thumb moved slightly to trace her lips, not seductively, but reverently, as if he wanted to _feel_ the words she had spoken, as if he wanted to physically capture them.

"Peace" he murmured and just like that his hand was gone, leaving a trailing sensation of warmth in its wake. For the rest of her life she knew she would remember the feel of his hand on her skin.

Her eyes flew open as he she heard him walk away, the sound of his steps hitting the cement stairs echoed in her ears until she remembered that he had never answered _her_ question.

"Why did you come here?" she called out stopping him in mid stride his back to her. He turned his head to the side slightly, not fully facing her, but enough so that she could see that his eyes were closed lightly and that his mouth looked soft, languid. From her angle she could almost see the hints of a wistful smile.

"Because I can't forget" and it was like déjà vu, she was suddenly transported back to a time when the air had been crisp and pure and _he_ had been a demon, an enemy.

"You've said that before" she said.

"Yes" he replied, finally turning fully to look at her with those golden eyes, and this time, _this_ time they weren't raging, they were calm, quiet, magnetic.

"What's different about _now?"_ she asked, strangely lulled by the fierce calm of his eyes.

"Now I _want_ to remember" and he walked away and she knew as he walked down the steps and out of her life she would never see him again. She wasn't his lover, she wasn't his friend. She was just someone he had once known.

She smiled, a slow, full smile that was real, and happy. She had been wrong before. She had been wrong when she had thought there was nothing more beautiful than him not forgetting her. Because there was.

Him _remembering _her. Remembering her not because he couldn't forget her, but remembering her because he never _wanted_ to forget her. There would be no hate, no disgust, no frustration tainting her memory now. There would just be her.

And it was nice to know, strangely fulfilling to think that tomorrow, when an image of her floated through his mind, he would smile.

There was something beautifully poignant about that.

* * *

_Sometimes it takes the darkness and the sweet confinement of your aloneness to learn, anyone who brings you alive is not too small for you_

* * *


End file.
